Pages

Saturday, October 17, 2015

There is nothing funny about Canadian politicians. They are a bland lot making their way (plodding their way, I should say) toward election showdown. Or is it me? I can't see the humour. The joke is on the inside, leaving the expat outside, knocking on the door.

Which may be more reason why I, and other long-term expats, have no right to line up with resident Canadians on voting day.

As a Canadian expat, do you bemoan the fact that the right to vote in a Canadian federal election has been taken away from you? Or are you even aware of the fact - never having had the inkling to vote while living abroad? There are approximately 2.8 million Canadian citizens living abroad and 1.4 million of them have lost the right to vote, as a result of a recent ruling in a Court of Appeal.

Let's take a quick look at the recent history of the expat voting debate. In 1993, a court ruled for the first time that expats living abroad for longer than five years could no longer vote in federal elections. However, the five-year clock was reset for expats who returned for even short visits. Then, in 2007, Elections Canada began to enforce a requirement for expats to resume residency in Canada in order to regain their right to vote abroad. In 2014, two Canadian expats living in the United States launched a constitutional challenge to this law restricting their right to vote. A Superior Court Justice threw out this voting ban, thus giving long-term Canadian expats the right to vote again in federal elections. However, in July of this year (2015), a Court of Appeal, in a split decision, overturned that ruling and the right to vote was taken away from long-term expats yet again.

And many Canadian expats are crying foul - among them, a number of well-known celebrities. Actor Donald Sutherland published an editorial stating that not only is he a Canadian through and through, but that he was honoured as an Officer of the Order of Canada - and yet he is not allowed to vote in Canadian elections. To stress their case, expats point to countries which do not hold such restrictions on expat voting. Poland, Venezuela, Russia and Japan provide polling stations at embassies and consulates. France and the United States allow online voting for citizens abroad. Italy and France have created members of parliament to directly represent their expats. India has even created a government ministry dedicated to its expats. But supporters of the most recent ruling argue that many countries do have similar or harsher restrictions. UK citizens cannot vote after living abroad for more than fifteen years; Australians are restricted to six years and New Zealanders to three years. Irish citizens cannot vote while living abroad at all. Nor can citizens of Zimbabwe or Nepal.

And what about Israel? We can't forget Israel - my country of abode and the other half of my split personality. You may be surprised to hear that there is no absentee voting for Israelis, unless they are in the service of the State abroad. But Israelis living abroad can return to Israel at election time to vote. And many do so. Why doesn't Israel allow Israelis living abroad to maintain their ties to the mother country through voting? Maybe they don't want to encourage the mass exodus, or they are punishing those who won't stick it out with the country through thick and thin. Perhaps it is ideology. You can choose your own conspiracy theory.

So, who do you think is right in all of this? Let's look at the reasoning behind this ruling:
Canada's social contract entails citizens submitting to laws because they had a voice in making them through voting, the ruling states.
"Permitting all non-resident citizens to vote would allow them to participate in making laws that affect Canadian residents on a daily basis but have little to no practical consequence for their own daily lives. This would erode the social contract and undermine the legitimacy of the laws," Justice George Strathy wrote for the majority of the court's judges.

I must admit that, despite my anarchistic tendencies, this makes sense. Sometimes being on the outside looking in offers a better perspective. But not here. Why should I have the right to vote on things that have little or no practical consequence for my own daily life?

"Okay then," you challenge, "why should you be able to still hold Canadian citizenship? You have lived most of your life outside of Canada. What makes you think you can still be Canadian?"

"Ah, read my blog," I want to say. But I know they won't. How do you explain it, then, to a non-believer?
"That is different," I argue. "Being Canadian is also a state of mind. Growing up in Canada is a part of who I am. You can't take that away from me. Being a Canadian is also something that I share with my children. I would like to say, "and also with my children's children," but according to a 2009 amendment to the Citizenship Law, automatic citizenship extends only to the first generation born abroad. What do I think of that? Once again, I can understand the reasoning. I just hope my legacy outlives that decision.

Thursday, October 1, 2015

One thing that we all have in common is: growing old. It can't be denied. Some of us go through it gracefully; others stamp their feet and pull out their hair. Some of us are in denial; others try to meet it head on.

I, for one, cannot remember growing old past the age of 19. Yes, I know that there are smidgeons of memories. The first years on the kibbutz, marriage, parenthood. Milking the cows, becoming a teacher, taking on social responsibilities, leaving to live in the desert. Creating a meaningful environment by connecting the world through educational initiatives and then entering into cultural and intellectual stagnation. What is left? What might have been, what was, and what will probably no longer be?

There is no point in crying over spilt milk. Whiskey is a good substitute. But not even whiskey can fill the place of all of the things that have gone missing. Most people would say that the main problem is me. They may be right, but I am not willing to let the world off that easily: not quite yet.

I don't recognize the face that I see in the mirror each and every morning. Nor can I imagine what people see who call me father, grandpa, husband and son. Do they recognize in me something that once really was? Or have I drifted away, leaving them with anything that they may want to paint into that image?

I admit that I am not growing old gracefully. I feel the desire at times to kick and scream. Although I find myself gradually slipping further and further into passive acceptance, or better said: the desire to toss it all in.

The problem with all this is that the memories get in the way. They creep up on you and pounce at the oddest times. Some memories make you feel invincible; others leave you feeling increasingly feeble. Sometimes we chase after memories in an attempt to rediscover misplaced nostalgia. But more often, we seek to avoid them. Although there are things that can never be ignored. Why is it that we have this obsessive urge to connect the dots, as if we can harness the neurons in our brain and make them do our bidding? When all that we accomplish is a more fractured sense of self.

And there are times when our memories seek out our own self-destruction, as they did this Yom Kippur. Wandering down to the Volunteers' Beach at the kibbutz by the sea, I was reminded of midnight swims past, when we ran down the hill, discarding clothes on the way, following a ritual of song, chocolate milk and brandy. The calm midnight sea allowed us to walk deep into its arms, each of us seeking out a special niche, as individuals we still were, with no thought of growing old. It was called the Volunteers' Beach, as opposed to the Members' Beach on the other side of a stone cliff, as it was a place where almost only kibbutz volunteers would go. Perhaps because mothers didn't like their children, and especially their husbands, to ogle at the topless Scandinavian volunteers.Or maybe it was because of the strong currents and undertows at this section of the sea. But we could navigate those turbulent waters. We were invincible.

And now it was Yom Kippur. The waves were sweeping in, crashing down upon the water's edge. I imagined myself to be 19 again and out I went. The thrill of riding the waves. Water sweeping over me. The sea flirted with me and drew me out further, until I felt the undertow taking control of my legs, pulling me to where there was no bottom and to where there was possibly no way back. As a 19-year-old, I would have had no problem swimming out of it. But now it appeared almost poetically fitting that I would meet my maker on the Day of Atonement, when I had really thought that I could wind back time. But no, it was not to be this day. The human intervened and I was pulled to safety. And now there are two layers of memory, with one mocking the other.

So what is there beyond growing old and dwelling in the memories? Looking at the glass half empty, I suppose that my greatest fear is in becoming impotent: both physically and mentally, with all that that entails. For when we begin to question the reason for going on living, we question our very existence.

"Write another book," some of you say. "Isn't that a part of the legacy that you want to leave behind?"

Maybe. But what should I write about? Old-age? They say that you should write about something that you are intimately acquainted with. But I feel that I have said all that I have to say about old age. And now it is me, staring at the wall, wondering if I still have a voice, or why it should really matter if I do or don't.

I know, it's starting to sound like I am dwelling too much in self-pity. That was not really my intent. But what was my intent? I am too senile to remember. As for you, what still provides you with the quest for life, despite your growing old, despite the inevitable? Are you willing to share your secrets with us?